A Good Distraction
by newvagabond
Summary: Ratchet/Wheeljack. Tactile, plug 'n play, etc. Non-sticky, you know the drill. Ratchet's wound too tight and Wheeljack knows just what he needs. This was very, very fun to write. These two are lulzy as hell


**A/N: Ratchet/Wheeljack. Tactile, plug 'n play, etc. Non-sticky, you know the drill. **

This was very, very fun to write. These two are lulzy as hell. Ratchet's wound too tight and Wheeljack knows just what he needs.

Enjoy!

* * *

"Whatcha workin' on, doc?"

Ratchet's plating rose immediately, a metal pufferfish of irritation. "What do you want, Wheeljack? I already gave you supplies for your ship," the medic vocalized hard, keeping his optics down on the tool he was currently repairing.

A ridge quirked on Wheeljack's faceplate and he gave a surprised laugh. "Whoa, there, sunshine," he defended. "I was just askin'."

Ratchet's field colored darkly and he retracted his welder with a meaningful series of clicks. "Wheeljack—" He stopped himself, raising servo to pinch between optics. He was about to speak again when the Wrecker whistled low behind him.

"Wow," Wheeljack said with an almost pitying look (if it hadn't been for the smirk). "Being stuck on this planet with Prime has really done a number on you. Let me guess, no high grade either, huh?"

The older mech turned around with a squawk, optics alight with indignation. "This isn't—" He struggled, squeezing the tool in his servo. "Things are different. Get that through your battle-slagged processor."

Suddenly his hand was empty and he squawked yet again as Wheeljack held the tool away.

"_Wheeljack!_ I nee—"

"—What? _You needed that_?" Wheeljack threw his head back and laughed loud this time.

500% done, Ratchet snatched the item and turned back around. He dug his hands into a crate of other tools that needed mending with a grumble. He could still feel that damned Wrecker's field though. A bit close, actually. Little coils reached out with a buzz of familiarity that made Ratchet grind his denta, forcing down vorns-old memories.

"I know what you need, doc," Wheeljack vocalized almost subvocally into a defenseless audial.

He flicked Ratchet's antennae and everything froze. Even the medic's plating squeaked.

It took a considerable amount of strength to speak, and it came out through denta. "I _need _to continue working."

A blunt fingertip rubbed against thigh and dipped into a gap in plating. There was a hydraulic line there that Wheeljack had fun putting pressure on. Ratchet's hands held onto the crate and he had to remember to ventilate as his sensornet lit up. Wheeljack chuckled low and throaty.

"Nah," he said, continuing to stroke smooth thigh. As he expected, Ratchet's energy field wavered and lost itself to a low, needy buzz. The 'bot had never been good about masking his field. Maybe that's why it was so fun getting him riled up.

"You need it hard," he continued, rolling hips and holding Prime's proud doctor by the sides now, heat from his frame transferring over. "From a Wrecker."

Ratchet's will dissolved all at once. His ventilations were shaky and optics shuttered closed tightly. To the warrior's delight, servos slipped over his and the hip-rolling was reciprocated with an aft pressing back.

He restarted his vocalizer three times before he was able to get it out.

"My room. Five kliks."

Wheeljack smirked.

In his room, the doctor swept two weeks' worth of medical logs onto a datapad. The clutter of supplies on and around his berth was ridiculous. How had he been recharging comfortably in this mess? That probably explained the crick in his dorsal armor. Data transferred, he tucked the pad into subspace and went to his shelf in search of a cube.

Though they'd been settled into the missile silo for some time now, there wasn't really space to give them each a room for more than just recharging. Optimus had agreed to let Ratchet have his shelves and some room for storage, knowing that being organized was beneficial to the doctor's work. Even if lately he'd been too exhausted to properly condense the mess. At least he wasn't as bad as Bulkhead when it came to clutter, especially recently with Miko's influence. And Arcee was like a cat, she could sleep on anything.

The Autobot poured a cube shakily. He could not believe he was about to do this.

"Ready, sunshine?"

Ratchet nearly jumped out of his plating and held his fresh cube tightly. Wheeljack leaned in the doorway, all tough armor and piercing blue gaze. After a moment he entered, and approached the doctor at the shelves straight away.

He got a well-deserved glare, and a vague servo gesture. "Cube?" Ratchet asked, clearly nervous, clearly stalling.

"Nope," Wheeljack answered plain and simple, and as Ratchet tried to take another sip he backed him into the wall.

Choking on energon, the older mech waved his hand in the direction of the door. "Close the door, you lughead," he hissed.

Wheeljack's ridges rose. "No one's here," he said, then squinted suspiciously.

"Will you just close it!"

With a grand optic-roll, Wheeljack looked over his shoulder at the door. After a thoughtful smile, he detached the grenade from his hip and tossed it—Ratchet nearly had a spark-attack—and the shell hit the door panel with astonishing accuracy. The door closed in a loud _shunk_.

That's how Wreckers got it done.

Ratchet's ridges were tight over his eyes, and Wheeljack wasn't ignorant to the spike of fear marring his field. Ha, he'd scared him.

"Now," Wheeljack vocalized, servos firmly on his stressed companion's sides. "Finish your cube."

Ratchet gave a final glare before lifting the cube to his mouthplate. He tilted it, and cool energon slid down his intake. Wheeljack just kept watching as the medic tilted it again.

"On second thought, maybe I need some fuel." Ratchet's wrist was grabbed and before he could react, a rough mouthplate sealed over his.

Glossa darted in and Wheeljack pressed forward to deepen the osculation, stealing every drop of fuel from Ratchet's surprised mouth. After a deliberate bite, the Wrecker pulled back and licked his lip plates.

Once again Ratchet's energy field betrayed his facial expression. He was all grumpy grimaces but his field may as well have been shouting _frag me now!_

"I _did_ ask you if you wanted any," he said, mouth a thin line as he suppressed a shiver. Scrap. Coolant was already circulating through him.

"You gonna whine about it or you gonna steal it back?" Wheeljack thumbed a gap in pelvic plating. He never forgot a sweet spot. Sure enough Ratchet's optics flickered and his legs twitched.

Perhaps a little encouragement was needed. Wheeljack slid a hand up and took the cube right out of his partner's servo. There was maybe one sip left. For a regular 'bot anyway, for a Wrecker it was hardly anything.

With locked optics, he let the fluid slide into his mouth. Ratchet was staring wide-optic like a thousand mismatched processor patterns were causing him to malfunction.

The orange 'bot's mouth moved but he clearly needed to reset his vocalizer again because no sound came out. It hardly mattered anyway, because Ratchet had hooked fingers into Wheeljack's chest and almost lunged forward to connect their mouthplates. The taste of energon lit his receptors again as he took back his drink, and Wheeljack groaned into it, pleased.

"There ya go, doc," he half-rasped.

Ratchet snapped his field and gripped plating. "Stop calling me that," he growled, words fading into another hard mouthing.

Both sets of cooling fans activated and neither even heard the clatter of a cube falling to the floor.

The two mechs were all wordless mouth scraping, groaning and digging under plating for a good klik or two. When Ratchet's chest plates started to tremble and part under the warrior's touch, it was time for a change. Processor spinning, field tangled, Ratchet pulled away with hard ventilations.

"Berth," his vocalizer hissed in static.

"Yeah," Wheeljack agreed almost in a laugh.

Their maneuvering was laughable, misfired steps and nearly tripping over each other's pedes. Ratchet crashed onto the berth and tugged at the Wrecker, trying to get him on the furniture too.

But Wheeljack was enjoying the view. What a sight it was to see Ratchet sitting there panting at him, frame suitably heated, aura grating for a hard frag.

"Get—down—here."

It seemed Ratchet could only growl at that point and it was to the endless amusement of the other mech, who found himself being yanked down. He kept himself from crashing onto the other but something told him Ratchet wouldn't have minded.

The medic's field thrummed hard now and his servos went straight for Wheeljack's abdominal array in search of something.

"Mm, wait a klik," Wheeljack murmured into his shoulder, pushing those eager servos away.

Ratchet bristled visibly, plating flaring again, pushing down system pings that screamed _NO, NOW _at him. Primus, the doc really did need a frag. Or fifty.

That would come in time. Wheeljack wasn't quite done. It'd been a very long time since he and Ratchet were together. Part of him wanted to bring it up, talk about the old days, about Cybertron, but... he knew better. Ratchet was still Ratchet, and for all his grumbling and ranting he was a pretty sensitive mech. And by the looks of it, the 'bot was carrying a lot of unresolved guilt. At the edges of his field, beyond the current arousal, were little bits of anxiety that Wheeljack had detected the first time he'd entered the base.

It was best just to leave the past alone. Focus on now.

And now, he wanted to play a little bit more. See what he could draw out from that tense protoform.

The Wrecker settled over Ratchet, who was still sitting, still aching and glaring. With a smirk, Wheeljack pressed servo firmly over his partner's chassis. The throb it created in the mech's field was amusing, and the doctor grabbed that hand with a growl. Wheeljack pulsed his field back, sending calming waves, promising interface soon. Ratchet looked about a nano-klik away from jumping on him and forcing cables out. That'd be interesting.

The hand smoothed down from chassis, scraping bluntly at the gap where the doc's leg connected. Slag, the plates were tight there. "Lemme in," he said against an audial, taking the orange appendage there in his denta.

Ratchet seemed to have lost the ability to vocalize and just moaned as he tried to relax his plates. Wheeljack stroked an overlap encouragingly, still laving at audial. He needed a little more, and communicated this by trying to press a digit under a plate. It strained and trembled.

"Come on, doc," Wheeljack said gently. "Relax."

He had to change tactics. He was way too closed. Seemed to enjoy the mouthing, Wheeljack thought, and made a biting trail from audial back to Ratchet's faceplate. The 'bot immediately connected their mouths, craving the charge that created.

Plating loosened in a sigh and Wheeljack slipped a finger underneath. He immediately sought out wires and circuitry, touching, teasing, applying pressure. He ventured to find out if Ratchet was still sensitive around crystal oscillators, and felt past a motion cable for a circuit board.

A-ha. He rubbed it with rounded, hard fingertip and Ratchet bucked with a yelp.

Wheeljack laughed into his collar. Still sensitive, then. He pressed softer this time, letting energy wash over the circuit and his finger. Ratchet ex-vented in a rasp, gripping the Wrecker's arm.

"Good?"

"Sh-Shut up."

"Good, then."

Wheeljack teased the circuit, biting and kissing Ratchet between gasps, taking in how his optics rolled with each skitter of concentrated energy rippling over him from such a tiny part. When Ratchet went for his interface panel this time, he let him.

Sliding the cover aside, the medic's hands pulled the thickly jacketed cable out. He paused. Right. Wrecker cables were... big.

Wheeljack groaned as a thumb swept over the conductive tip. His doorwings clicked fully erect on his shoulders. Alright, yeah, he couldn't hold off any longer either. Into a kiss, reaching down to open his partner's panel, he asked, "Got an adapter?"

Ratchet's optics cycled big and he looked around. Scrap. An adapter. He hadn't thought of that.

"I-In the medbay somewhere, I think," he said, trying to clear his vocals of a grind. Wheeljack looked a little bit put off and he couldn't blame him. Neither of them wanted to move.

"It's okay," Ratchet assured, drawing the cable out more.

Wheeljack stopped his hand, took the cable away from him. "Gonna be a tight fit, doc."

"Will you _stop _calling—I know that. Just—do it."

A ridge rose over the larger mech's optic. "You're not allowed to be mad if something breaks, then."

Ratchet practically assaulted him with an overcharged field. "I said _do it!" _

"Alright, sunshine."

And before the doctor could snap at him for that, Wheeljack rested the metal end of his interface cable at the port. It crackled hungrily. After a breath and reassuring optic contact, he pressed it in as far as it would go.

Ratchet's spark whirled and Wheeljack could feel it. He waited for a nod and then pressed forward still. Charge surged from the straining port, and the orange Autobot drew a knee up to balance the discomfort. Just a little bit more. The Wrecker pushed evenly, keeping it steady.

They both heard the _crack_, and gasped in unison when the cable slammed home. It wasn't a perfect fit. Tight, very straining, but it would do. Ratchet had thrown his helm back and squeezed his optics shut.

Wheeljack smoothed a servo between ambulance doors comfortingly. "Okay?"

Despite his shaking, "Yes."

"Good."

He plugged Ratchet's orange cable into himself, and settled on top, sparks thrumming against chests. He started the charge and every plate on the medic's frame contracted and loosened, and Wheeljack had enough experience to know he was still adjusting.

Servos went down in a slide again, sending tingles up sensornet. Ratchet released his grip on Wheeljack's arms in a silly, dazed scramble and scratched at his chassis eagerly. Fingers hooked into gaps and drew the Wrecker against him, a demand for more.

Wheeljack aimed to please. He upped his charge and ground their middles together, not at all surprised when Ratchet choked and threw his helm back again. Mm, there was nothing quite as satisfying as watching the medic come undone.

Ratchet was quickly losing his senses and swore in thick static, grinding up, shoving fingers under plates. He pulled the charge from his partner and bundled it up before trying to throw it back. His coordination was a bit off and each wave of energy sort of crashed into Wheeljack, who groaned a little bit and gave a hard buck.

That of course gained a shout and arcs of energy leapt between their frames as they spasmed.

Ratchet's interface port ached for several reasons and he growled under Wheeljack. It was without a doubt a demand and a challenge.

Oh? The good doctor didn't think this was hard enough? Wheeljack would show him.

Pulling his hands away from the trembling chest beneath him, the Wrecker grabbed Ratchet by the backs of his knees. The doc was hilariously taken by surprise and suddenly found his legs being bent back against him, pedes in the air. His field surged, optics spinning wide.

"F-Frag, j-just—yes, hard, _now!" _

Wheeljack's smirk was broad. "Well, since you asked so nicely..."

Ratchet's optics went gooey as the Wrecker pounded him into the berth. Each metal on metal crash, each scrape and mash amplified the energy scorching across his circuits. Pleasure ripped from his protoform.

Engines roared, fans went into overdrive.

And Ratchet screamed.

Overload tore across systems, scalding them, all but melting his processor as every sense turned inward and all he felt was white-hot energy. Somehow his audials were still online and distantly he recognized Wheeljack's vocalizer caught in a growl.

Metal gave in a sounding crumple under the Wrecker's grip as his systems redlined, straining to slow down as not to destroy the chassis he'd been wailing on. Rattling, he gave in and collapsed atop the medic. They both ventilated roughly. Ratchet's optics weren't even online, though he was still awake.

Coolant coursed through their frames, desperately trying to alleviate overheated circuits. They both knew they should be supplying more, but couldn't be bothered to get up just yet.

Wheeljack reached blindly between them to disconnect their lines. He was extra careful about his cable, and when he finally looked down, he winced. Ratchet's port was... cracked. Oops. He closed the panel silently and rubbed a soothing servo over it.

"I need to... get back to work..." Ratchet panted, throwing an arm over his faceplate.

Wheeljack snorted and rolled off of him. Some 'bots never change. "Take a day off for once."

"This _is_ my day off."

"Well lucky me."

Ratchet would've protested to being squeezed like a teddy bear but he was too damn exhausted. He was quite certain his processor had been knocked loose being fucked like that.

Primus.

He needed a day off from his day off. With that thought, he slipped into recharge within minutes and Wheeljack grinned to himself.

He wasn't in any rush to leave, but after a nano-cycle of laying there he really could've use some more coolant. He closed the door as quietly as he could behind him, and as he turned, almost tripped over someone small and blue.

"Hey," Wheeljack said, unable to contain a smirk. His audials detected the kids in the common room. Wow, perfect timing.

Arcee stared at him with narrowed optics. Then at the door. She opened her mouth once and then shut it with a knowing facepalm.

"Nevermind," she said, and continued walking past the Wrecker, shaking her head.

Ratchet, I swear.


End file.
